


Paradox

by dollylux



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rafa really does seem to be two different people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradox

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on my writing journal on LJ (melungeoned) and fedal_slash.

  
It was an odd thing, the disconnect between the boy he knew off court and the man that strutted into match after match, racquet in hand, his clothes bright as war paint. The boy he knew off court would be a little intimidated by that man. His eyes would somehow grow a little larger, a twinge of surprise registering in the corners of his mouth, a softening of the lips. The Rafa on the court was a warrior and he proved the truth of that cliche with every slam of his racquet. with every almost inhumane movement he made, like a machine perfected, like an earth-chained god who had to win his way back where he belonged.

It had startled Roger at first, witnessing the seamless slip from Nadal to Rafa. He saw the flashes of fire smothered out in his eyes and be replaced by something equally as bright but that was more warmth than anything else he had ever seen. The first time he received a smile from him left him almost completely speechless. When on the receiving end of that smile, he knew the only option was to return it with his own that didn't feel nearly as luminous, as complete. Ever since that first match, he found himself scrambling to keep up, fighting to categorize his emotions that were nothing but conflicted, having to remind himself that they really were two different people, that it was okay to fear and loath the man on the other side of the net and then feel weak-kneed by the shy boy in the locker room who humbly asked for his sweaty polo shirt after Roger had beaten him in a match. Where did that boy come from? Where did he hide when his feet touched the court? How did he tame such an animal in his everyday life?

In all the years he had known Rafa, no answer had come easily, if at all. When he finally just made himself forget about it, not think about it, just let himself ride the warm wave of emotions Rafa brought over him time and time again, he found that he could let himself get completely lost in him. Lost first in the power in his step, the command in his broad shoulders, in the rhythm of his game (god, that careful, hypnotizing dance), the sheer force of his arms, the graceful curl of his fingers as they released the ball to the sky, in the primal, gut-torn growls he let loose for all the world to hear, letting them in on the magnitude of his strength. Lost in tousled, windblown curls, lost in deeply sunkissed, baby velvet skin, lost in strong hands, in supple lips that lent themselves to shy smiles, in sandbrown eyes, in the litany of sighs that he seemed to give away freely, effortlessly, but only to him. He kept both of them, the boy and the warrior, narrowed them down when he could, forced them into the one body that he found himself against and around and in, he pushed them both together with kisses and grips and shoves and rhythms and whispers, he pushed them together to overwhelm himself, to be in awe of his sheer beauty, of the complete paradox he was so in love with. He made both sides of Rafa come together just for him, and in those moments, he kept him all for himself.


End file.
